


Pink Moon

by respiratem



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Beforus, Ladystuck, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-28
Updated: 2012-12-28
Packaged: 2017-11-22 17:21:18
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,637
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/612310
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/respiratem/pseuds/respiratem
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>a somewhat truncated response to a ladystuck request.<br/>enjoy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pink Moon

**Author's Note:**

  * For [unknown20troper](https://archiveofourown.org/users/unknown20troper/gifts).



It was night on the East Beforan shore, early night, and the waves lapping up were so warm and quiet and peaceful with that fading touch of dusk, and the moon was pink, and the tourism machine hadn’t started up yet, and neither the boardwalk one, and everything was quiet, except for the aforementioned waves, and the birds, chiefly the morning peepers, who were warbling one last song before dozing off in their grassy nests, and presently one Feferi Peixes was walking up the shore cuddling an entire family of them.

One disgruntled Meenah Peixes tagged along at her side. “They gon’ poop on ya,” she muttered, this hadn’t been in the contract, nowhere at all did it say that being crown princess involved pattering after the cavity-sweet present monarch on daily field trips, nowhere at all, not even in 5pt fine print, no sirrah. 

She was both correct and incorrect. The Terms and Conditions of heiress apparent were actually a millionth of a point (two nanometers) in height. However, the rest of the instructions were also that size; thus they could not be considered fine print. 

To truly put things in context, the manual would have to be extremely long, written in an ancient language, confined to four letters only, and practically unreadable. 

Meenah had zero access to it and little say in the matter. Tyrian blood was an unwarranted burden conferred by the roulette wheel of existence, and Meenah found herself placing more and more losing bets. Like that of attending Her Imperial Comprehension’s evening walk.

It was a gamble, all right. Feferi called it “dancestral bonding”. Meenah (quietly, and to herself) called it “slow death by horror”. She _did_ like the trident training sessions, but everything else was torture. Why did she even volunteer to go tonight? Ah yes, she had been bored. 

Well, the unchanging jail cell of boredom was put quite in perspective by Feferi’s iron maiden hugs, knives of cooing, and voice of syrupy, honeyed sulfuric acid. 

Meenah had made some especially cutting remarks to express her pain, but they slid by unnoticed. Feferi didn’t punish disobedience, nor yell at it, nor even acknowledge it, which, at a point, became a desirable alternative to her current tendencies. 

“Aren’t they so cuuuuuuute?” the Comprende simpered. Meenah wanted to puke. “So fluffy and graaaaaaaaay?” Meenah ground her teeth. “Here, you little meanie, pet them!” Feferi thrust her terrifying embrace Meenah-ward. Meenah jumped. 

Meenah would rather stick her hand in a howlbeast’s mouth than in that gaping maw. 

But Empress’s orders. She petted the chicks, quickly withdrew her hand, and wiped it on her pants leg. 

Eugh. Soft and downy things, those peepers were. And cute, yes. But the arms around them? Fuck no. 

Meenah endured such nightly rituals as stoically as she could, because the Compresce, completely oblivious to her apprentice’s true feelings, thought them a good idea. 

She was wrong. Meenah became so annoying that she even annoyed herself, constantly asking piddling questions, making barbs towards local lowbloods, and slipping crude insinuations about Her Comprehension’s mental health into everyday conversation. The HIC either feigned ignorance or brushed them off with a laugh. 

One day, Meenah woke up in her royal respiteblock, dined on royal toast and kippers, and was suddenly confronted by a royal valet, who ushered her into a royal automobile-- on royal orders, of course. 

Royal, in this context, did not actually mean “ridiculously opulent”; instead, it implied a prim but unassuming cleanliness.

The servant handed her a royally written note before starting the car.

“Dear Meena)(,

T)(e c)(auffeur will take you to Frog City! I want you to spend a day t)(ere so you can see )(ow burgundies, bronzes, and oc)(res live. Per)(aps it will )(elp you better understand our mission. Soon to be your mission, in fact.  
You will be picked up at t)(e place you were dropped off at 17:00 S)(ARP! Please don’t be late. 

)(ave fun!  
F-EF-ERI P-EIX-ES”

and then in very small text,

“ _Her Imperious Comprehension_ ”

and then in normal text,

“PS) If you beat someone up, at least take t)(em )(ome too!”

That last line was sorely necessary. Meenah was now quite adept at the 2x3dent, and her fuse was short.

Said fuse had been lit by the valet’s appearance, shittily snuffed out by the car’s plush inside, doused in oil by the note, and reignited by its contents. 

But there was nothing Meenah could do about it. Empress’s orders, and she was already out on the highway. 

So she smoldered. All the way to Frog City.

 

If the motive of the elder Peixes was to exact revenge, then she succeeded. If it was to educate and inspire her next-in-line, well, then she failed. Utterly. 

In fact, she scored points against herself. Meenah spent the entire car ride thinking about just how shitty a name Frog City was: extremely corny, barely relevant to the designated location and again, really shitty. 

The cityline did little to lessen her mood. Composed of sooty, blocky factories and the eventual grimy apartment complex, looking almost gave Meenah an allergic reaction. From the moment she set foot on the crumbling asphalt to the moment she was safely back inside her palace, she was solidly convinced that any and all monetary amounts allotted by the Cuttlery Corporation, each and every social program, absolutely the entire run of donations down to the smallest caegar, were wasted by the city’s inhabitants. 

She attempted to stay on the sidewalk. (Her escort had already driven away.) The crowd jostled her, and she stumbled off. 

What was she to do? Meenah tried repeatedly to flag down a taxi-- consisting of waving her arms and shouting obscenities at receding cars, taxi or not, which actually attracted very little notice --and was quickly tired out. Head down and shuffling feet, she meandered all the way up Mill Avenue, to the flickering intersection at Fifth Street. 

A burgundy about her age bumped her shoulder going by. “Sorry,” she said quickly, and with huge smile. 

Meenah glanced at her exposed hand, clutching a threadbare purse, two slivers of bright green paper, and a shopping bag. The bag contained a sack of rice.

Meenah put two and two together. “Them’s food stamps.”

“Yes.” The rustblood nodded, still grinning like an idiot. “Is my first day. I did not know before. Now no need worry about food.”

“An’ you’re happy with that?”

“Yes, very happy!”

"Freeloader," Meenah hissed. 

"What, ma'am?" The rustblood stared at her.

"Freeloader, I said." She narrowed her eyes. "Doncha understand West Beforan?"

The lowblood's lower lip quivered. "I no ... I no understand 'frirouda' of meaning."

"It means lazy bum," Meenah almost shouted, "which you obviously are, seein' as you haven't even made an attempt to learn the local language!"

"Lazy? I ... " Her lips curled outwards into a frown. "I not lazy!" "Ma'am," she added.

"What's your name, gill?"

"Wha- oh! Name of am Damara ... "

"Well, Damara, you betta clear the fuck out before you get gotten on account a' talkin' back to the princess, hear?"

Damara nodded her head until it almost flew off her neck. "Yes, ma'am." 

Meenah turned around, towards Mill Avenue. "An' stop callin' me ma'am, I don't need moray that."

"Yes ... sir." Meenah turned back fast enough to catch a glimpse of Damara's smirk. 

She slapped it off with a vicious backhand. Damara fell backwards, hit her head hard, and whimpered. Her purse and shopping bag fell onto the street. 

Meenah grabbed the collar of her grimy red sweater. "So that's what it is now, huh," she breathed into the rustblood's face. A glassy line of blood started trickling from Damara's nostrils. One or two passerby slowed to gawk. "Backtalk _and_ mockery of the Beforan Empire's one an' only heir to the throne." She stood up, pressing Damara's face as close as she could stomach the smell. "You are so IN for it." She could see a mouth full of flat, misaligned teeth. "You are gonna get _culled_."

Damara's eyebrows knitted themselves together. Meenah barely suppressed a giggle. "That's right," she whispered dramatically, "I'm gonna take you to Queen Feffy and have her fix you up all right. She's gonna comb your hair, an' give you a bath, an' tuck you inta bed all nice an' tight ... an' when she's done with all that she's gonna feed you ta Gl'obablababalabapolyp fer a midnight snack." 

The mouth she was looking into lit up at the corners like a sputtering lamp. "Real?"

Meenah's shoulders slumped. "A'course it's real," she said dejectedly. "You can ... you can ask anyplace, for tha 'Tragic Tales a' Gl'lonbabbbsbababdib', or somethin', and they'll tell ya. 'S a tradeoff. The only shower you'll ever have in your life for the price 'a the rest 'a it."

Damara inhaled, choked, snorted up some blood, and smiled a tentative smile. "Sound about nice."

"Oh shell," Meenah groaned, "who'm I kiddin', there's nothin' to it." She dropped Damara, who fell and hit the same spot on her head again. "You'll see, it's all the Queen fussin' about assorted lowbloods an' makin' sure they got treatment for whatever skin condition they picked up in the sewers ... " She glanced at Damara, who was clutching her skull. "You ought'a be grateful. She spends all her time an' money on your kind. For free."

Meenah frowned at a smudge of red on her right thumb. "Well, shit." She echoed Her Imperious Compassion's words. "'If you beat someone up, dolly, take them home too!'" Meenah's sugary smile collapsed into a grimace as she turned to the supine rustblood. "Not worth wastin' the effort on _you_ , I think."

"Empress’s orders, though," she groaned. Damara raised her head slightly. "'Ey, peep down! Doesn't mean I hafta follow 'em." 

Meenah turned around to see a miniature mob already tittering at this new ruckus by the roadside. "Fuck." She glared at Damara. “Well … “ Her eyes darted one last time, and she licked her lips. “Fine, I will.”

“Crabbie!” she yelled through the encircling throng. “‘EY! Someone get a crabbie!” Several locals looked at her in confusion. Meenah stomped her left foot. “How the hell do you even get a taxicrab?” She picked up one of Damara’s hands. “Excuse me! Fuckin’-- fuckin’ taxi _cab_ , fine! Just somebody get me a taxi!” 

A flash of neon yellow passed by. Meenah chased it, half-dragging a now walking Damara along, and the crowd parted before them. “‘Ey fucker, I’m talkin’ ta you! Ey! Stop!” 

The heiress whipped her head around. Damara flinched. “You live ‘round here, you summon a cod damn taxi.”

Damara hesitated. Meenah exploded. “Just call a fuckin’ automobile ta pick us up already!” 

The lowblood blinked, then stepped off the curb. She raised her left arm high in the air, and with all fingers together and parallel to the ground, as well as an air of cautious formality, flapped her hand at the stream of vehicles in the street. 

They got a taxi in less than a minute. Meenah clambered in, although not without catching a foot on the running board and bumping her head on the low ceiling. She swore. Damara boarded with little trouble; once both were safely inside, Meenah gave her a cutting glare, sighed, and promptly fixed her gaze on the passing scenery. 

Contrary to her plans, the taxi sat where it had originally stopped. Damara coughed, and wiped her nose on her sleeve.

Meenah looked away from her riveting view of the Lower West slums. “Why ain’t the car movin’?”

“You need … “ Damara sniffled. “Tell drive car man. Go. Go to. Go to where.” Meenah stared at her. Damara motioned impotently. “Give him money.”

Meenah fumbled for her purse and pulled out a caegar. She tapped the glass separating the front and back seats. “‘Ey, driver. You speak West Beforan?”

As it turned out, he did. Very softly, however, and Meenah was forced to press her ear to the barrier.

“Get me-- get us to Her Imperious Comprehension’s royal palace, pronto.” … “Howdya not know where it is, it’s the big boring dull thing right smack dab stickin’ outta Capital!” … “I don’t give no fucks it’s twenny miles away!” … “Just take the cod damn money an’ _drive or I’ll cull ya_!”

Damara looked at them nervously.

“Fuck no, I shain’t cull ya in that way!” … “No that’s fuckin’ disgustin’, me lookin’ after one a yer freeloadin’ hides. That’s Feffy’s jaw.” … “Job, I meaned job.” … “An’ no, I’m not takin’ yer sorry ass ta the Comprissy. I’m takin’ _her_.” Meenah jerked her thumb in Damara’s general direction. “I can’t believe I’m wastin’ all this time here. Drive the crab already!”

Meenah spent the twenty-mile ride alternatively cursing, glaring outside, glaring at Damara, and throwing herself into the musty backseat cushions. Damara spent it rather demurely, staying calm for the first half but then slowly adopting an expression of greater and greater agitation. By the time they were in Capital, she was practically plastered on the windows. 

“The hell you doin’? That’s gross as fuck.”

Damara seemed to not hear her.

“I said,” Meenah said, reaching over and poking one shoulder, “the hell you doin’, gill, that’s unsanitary, stop it.”

“Capital,” Damara breathed. She extricated herself from the glass. “I only-- only see before in photos.”

Meenah wrinkled her nose. “It’s not that muchuva big eel. Deal. Big city, who gives? Ruled by Feferi. Hub a trade an commerce. Whatever.”

They continued into the hub of trade and commerce. Damara gaped at the progressively more exotic and streamlined buildings; passerby gaped back. 

Meenah wilted on the inside. How did she let herself, heiress to the multimegabilliondenar Cuttlery Co., not to mention crown princess, be seen with a gawking mudblood, in a filthy rusty taxicab, riding down 52nd of all places? God, the place was full of preppy fashion. The kind with the striped scarves and thick-rimmed glasses. Not even good preppy fashion.

Thankfully, not too much of it sullied Meenah’s eyes, as her driver, accustomed to Lower West driver’s courtesy, meaning nothing, and Lower West driving speeds, meaning upwards of sixty miles per hour in crowded environments with many pedestrians, horn honks, shopkeepers in musth, wailing wigglers, flagrant violations of signs, and accidents, was currently freewheeling over the well-paved streets of 52nd Street and causing many of the aforementioned events.

A watermelon from a local fruit peddler flew out onto the road and promptly exploded from the ensuing car jam. The cabbie cursed. Meenah and Damara were thrown left and right as the taxi swerved around oncoming trolls. 

The hub of collision caused by this one “simple, and evidently in need of culling” lowblood driver, as the papers later described him, spread out all the way to 49th Street, rushed down Bay Avenue, and ended up causing both a total of twelve injuries and a massive four-hour-long traffic blockage around Grand Central Market. The cabbie was arrested for public endangerment, then later let off and instead given to a cerulean to be properly educated. 

Meenah read this article with great relish, all until the last line. At that point she glared at Damara.

Damara was undergoing a hair-washing lesson from the Compresce. 

“Now you turn your hand oveeeeeer,” Her Imperious Comprissydom turned Damara’s hand over, “and scratch scratch scratch!”

Damara’s hand went scratch scratch scratch.

“And then you get another wad of hair,” the Empress pronounced her H’s with a great deal of breath, “and do the same! Now,” she backed her stool away, “I want to see you do that properly.”

Damara did so. Crow’s feet of joy appeared on the Compresce’s face. “Veeeery good!” She clambered out of the bathtub. “Okay, now you can wash it all out with that showerhead right there.” 

Damara proceeded to rinse her hair, squeaking as the water alternately ran too hot, or too cold. Each time the Comprehension reached to help her. Meenah observed it all with an air of low-grade amusement, as well as disgust, for everyone in the room was wearing a bathing suit. And the Compresce did not quite wear hers well.

Meenah, at the time, felt a faint apprehension that later resolved itself into full-blown terror when she realized that this was part of the inheritance. She shuddered. Yeah, money was great, prestige was great, having so many companies in the palm of her hand was going to be great, but taking care after the pariahs of the world was not. 

And it trumped everything else. A small, oily bundle of thoughts started to form behind Meenah’s eyes, wrapping around this one niggling grain.

Taking care of lowbloods. 

Hell, taking care of the entire Beforan population. Fuck, taking care of _anyone_. As the days wore on and Meenah’s patience wore ever shorter, the caked sphere grew larger, until an inevitable spark from an unwitting striker set it off into a gigantic, screaming conflagration.

A full dark season had passed since Meenah’s fateful time-out in Frog City. Damara had been culled and hired at the same time: culled by Feferi, and hired by Meenah. Feferi requested no money for her care, while Meenah gave none to be cared for. 

This week Meenah was particularly irritable, and the Compresce noticed. “If it makes you feel any better, honey,” she said as gently as possible, which still managed to induce sharp pains in her descendant’s teeth, “you’re going to be coronated soon.”

“Coral wha?”

“Coronated, silly!” 

An icy hand reached down Meenah’s back. Coronation. Passing on the crown. Passing on the crown and its _duties_.

Damara found Meenah in the courtyard the next day, stripping bubble wrap and price tags from a large metal hunk and jugs of gasoline. She was surrounded by large, sturdy bags and a pink satchel. 

Meenah was finishing up the gasoline cans, pouring the last into the metal hunk.

“What for?”

“Gimme a manatee,” Meenah muttered. 

“What is, first?” Damara asked after a while.

“I said, gimme--” Meenah ripped the shrink-wrap off a box of labels and proceeded to place them above what seemed to be a metal door, “-- a friggin’ manatee.”

“Manatee … too big seabeast,” Damara said lamely. 

Meenah gave her a scathing glare.

“Whatever. Keep yer blowhole shut now, okay? That’s an order.”

Damara considered questioning the current power of her orders, since she was fleeing the throne, but thought better of it, deciding to instead kick around a nearby rope.

“Stop that,” Meenah snapped. “Gimme it.” Damara gave her the rope, which was fastened around a ring on the flimsy-looking door. Meenah grappled with the line, attempting, with little success, to tighten it.

“If I help, you tell what is?”

“Shore.”

The loop easily tautened under Damara’s psionics. Meenah looked at it with chagrin.

“Looks like ya assbloods can pull yer own weight … so why _don_ cha, for fuck’s sakes?”

“Wha?” 

“ Never mind. Fin, ya earned the beans. Thissis a rocket. More specifically a private jetty.” She punched Damara’s shoulder. “We gonna be goin’ places, gill!” Meenah opened the door and began loading the large bags through it.

“We are … going where?” 

“Th’ moon.”

“... _Where?_ ” Damara’s face blanched. 

“The moon, I said,” Meenah said with a grunt, “an’ don’t make me say it agin.”

“How will-- this plane will take us to the moon?”

“Why not?”

“Too,” Damara wrung her hands, “too small.”

Meenah looked at her. “Maybe fer a sea cow, yeah. But me an your skinny ass?” She scratched her head, leaned back and sighed. “Just git that ass in this jetty, gill, an stop askin’ questions.”

Damara started. “No--”

“Whaddyamean ‘no’?” 

“It is--” Damara struggled and pointed at the wreck of metal. “Is not a good idea!”

Meenah snarled. “I’m goin’, and you’re comin’ along, whetha you like it or not.” 

“But why I have to go?”

“‘Cuz I said so is why!” Meenah roared.

They eyed each other. 

“Fine, ya wanna know the real reason?”

Damara nodded.

“I wanned a maid is what. Now git in, we hain’t got all day.”

Damara backed away. “No.”

Meenah scowled. “Look, I’m gettin’ in, it’s safe.” She opened the door and stuck one foot in.

Damara shook her head. “No.”

“Do it.”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Why should I?”

“‘ready told ya, ‘cuz I said so!”

“Not good enough reason.”

“Fine then,” Meenah said after a pause. “Fine. Ah’m … leavin’ alone, then. To the moon. All by myshellf.”

Damara nodded. “Yes, all by yourself.”

“You ain’t gettin’ the point!” Meenah yelled. “Tha point bein’ that I’m gonna be reel fuckin’ lonesome up there an’ I may as well have some company, even if it’s a lousy freeloadin’ burgundy ass!”

Damara’s face darkened. She stumbled over what she said next. “I do not … do not … want to be … with person who thinks I am ‘lousy freerouda burgundy ass’.”

Meenah saw her mistake. “Whatever,” she muttered. “Ah mean, yeah, whatever.” Louder. “Do whatcha like. If it suits yer likin’ ta stay with Feffy an’ get pampered all for doin’ nothin’--” her voice rose steadily, “if it suits yer likin’ ta sit around on yer ass gettin’ culled, then yeah, do it! I won’t hold it against you. Do whatevs you like.”

They stood there for a minute. 

“I am leaving,” Damara whispered.

“Reely?”

“Not with you. I leaving Capital. Find different place. Maybe not be lousy freerouda no more. Make you happy?”

Meenah shrugged slightly. She placed both feet in the rocket and grabbed the satchel. “G’bye, then, D’mara.”

Damara was silent for a second. “Good bye, Meenah.”

Meenah closed the door. The jet’s engines fired up a moment later, first spitting sparks, then smoky exhaust, then a stream of white fire that lifted it up into the sky. Damara sat down and coughed until the plane was out of sight, then turned around and slowly reentered the palace.

**Author's Note:**

> my apologies for the shortness.
> 
> some things may be inaccurate/not clear; I will leave them to reader imagination and the mst3k mantra, that being, please do not take offense at my shoddily researched inclusions of science, nor suburbanite descriptions of an urban setting.


End file.
